


She

by pennywife



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bittersweet, Good Pennywise (IT), Love, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, One Shot, Other, POV Pennywise, Pennywise (IT) in Love, Scars, Sexual Content, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: It’s such a marvel, the way the thing it cared the least about in this world has become its greatest weakness.





	She

**Author's Note:**

> Should have been writing the next chapter for TTBF but I sat down tonight and wrote this weird little baby instead.

There was no taste richer than the meat of an innocent child, the terror-salted skin and blood that drips down its chin when it feasts upon them. There was no sound sweeter than their screams cut in half by its teeth. It had been alive for a very long time. It knew from the moment it was sent to this place that nothing would ever matter to it as much as consumption, as much as its arcane power, as much as being a ravenous God among mice and making them mewl and whimper on their knees before it.

Nothing.

Until it met _her._

It can smell her, the sharp scent of her fear and the musk that clings to the inside of her legs. She opens herself to it like a flower, something to be plucked. She doesn’t cower away from it the way the other humans do. She never has.

_“I am not a human. I am the Eater of Worlds. I am every nightmare you’ve ever had.”_

It reminded her of this again and again with its words and its actions, as if she wasn’t already aware. Venom-tipped fangs and claws and cackles as sharp as broken glass. It refused to let her ever forget what it truly was, seared the image of its lights like a brand behind her eyelids.

_“You do not love me. You are not broken enough to love a thing like me.”_

Night after night she sought it out, like a beacon in the darkness. She told it that she didn’t care what it was; that if she is in fact in pieces, then she never wants to be whole again.

_“Little thing. Foolish thing. Wonderful thing.”_

She tastes so good; better than flesh. It buries its head beneath her dress and she keens, buries her fingers in its hair. It doesn’t understand why she closes her eyes as this part, or why her warmth flutters around it. It knows that she feels good, that it’s making her feel good; and the way her lips part is more beautiful than fear itself.

She slips aside that tiny slip of fabric, takes it into her in one swift motion. It loves the way she dips her head back, lets it wrap its tongue around her throat as she rocks her hips back and forth against it. Smoothly, fluidly; it moves itself up into her, slowing each time it senses a bright flash of pain. It guides her, holds her, wraps its arms around her and squeezes until her lungs burn. It’s _perfect_ , always so perfect. Everything that she does is good. She is the sun, and birth, and light; everything that it had ever detested before.

_“No one will ever hurt you again, Little One. Not for as long as you live.”_

It traces her scars with gloved fingers and strums through her memories to see how she got each one. Some are short and faded, others fat and long and pink like worms. Some of them make its mouth grow wet, hungry for the throats of those who put them upon her. She always pulls away when she realizes what it’s doing, and it doesn’t understand why she won’t let it rip out their hearts and bring them to her.

She is so human, so undeniably raw and empathetic; even if it refuses to believe the parts of her that it loves could ever be a product of man. And though she may look at the features of its favorite form and think that it resembles a human, it refuses to let her convince it that it is anything other than what it is.

_“Make no mistake; I will always be a monster.”_

It is far from stupid. It knows its own true shape, the last of a dying race. They are different in every way and it knows this, two jagged edges that will never fit all the way together. It wishes that it could change her, not to take away from what she is but to make her last.

The feeling that flares inside of it when it remembers that she can never be like it is cold, dull, unfamiliar to it entirely. It thinks perhaps that this is what its young victims feel when the color leaves their faces, crying out into the darkness and shrieking like little lambs. She told it that this was called ‘dread’ and it hissed at her because that couldn’t be it; an all-powerful being like itself could never feel such a thing. It rolled the word over and over in its mouth when it was on its own, a sore on the gums.

_“Dread. Dread. Dread. Dread. Dread.”_

Because it knows that it cannot keep her, not forever.

She is a moment, a breath, a song that it knows is going to end soon. Her skin will become wrinkled paper and her hair will turn to silver and everything that she ever was will become nothing but dust. It doesn’t matter how strong it is, how hard it tries to extend her existence and stretch it out like yarn. She will pass on eons before it ever has worry about its lights burning out. She will become a memory; just a faded mark, like the ones that litter her body. It will have have to go on without her, though sometimes it thinks that a part of it will die along with her.

_“I will never forget you, Little One.”_

It whispers this to her when she lies asleep, curled up next to it in its lair. And though it doesn’t say it to her, it knows that it does. It loves her. It loves her fiercely.

More than killing.

More than taking.

More than it has ever loved itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
